


We Have Night's Cloak to Hide Us from Their Eyes

by thegrumblingirl



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: M/M, pre-2009, shielding your dignity with plant pots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 10:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrumblingirl/pseuds/thegrumblingirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Holmes and Watson are out on a case, a bit of Shakespeare comes back to haunt them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Have Night's Cloak to Hide Us from Their Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> For Ch., who is the Benjamin Cook to my Russell T. Davies.

Dr John Watson had been puttering about the room he'd been led into by the butler of the house after dinner for a while, unpacking everything from his suitcase that he might need overnight: his revolver on the nightstand, his sword cane leaning against the wall. Paper and envelopes to write up the day's events in a quick letter to his friend and companion, Sherlock Holmes, who had stayed behind in London to investigate a few leads, but promised to come out to the country in two days at the latest. They were working on a case involving a Colonel Murchison from Watson's own former regiment. He had been the target of several assassination attempts over the last few months, and had finally sought assistance at Baker Street. Watson had been anxious to help a fellow soldier, and to his relief, Holmes had been interested enough not to dismiss the case at first glance, as he had done so many times in the one and a half years the consulting detective and the doctor had been living together until then. The Colonel, himself a single man of middle age, had asked them to come out to the mansion he had inherited from his family, since the last attempt on his life had entailed a message, warning him that his next trip to London would be the last he'd ever make. So he'd sent his valet to Baker Street with a letter detailing his conundrum to Holmes and Watson.

* * *

' _It is sheer dumb luck that I survived the first three attempts—one, they seemed to have botched up themselves, for the bullet embedded itself in the upholstering of the carriage rather than my head, but the other two were pure coincidence—once, I stepped back onto the pavement to inspect a bookshop display just as a large gargoyle "fell" from the roof of the building right to the spot where I had been standing only a second earlier, and on the third I have George, my valet, to thank for my life as he pushed me out of the way of a carriage that he swore was unerringly bound for me no matter where I moved.'_

The note went on to declare that he had no idea who could hold such a grudge against him, and that he hoped staying at his country house would help to draw the culprits out of hiding, for the detective to apprehend them and to get to the bottom of this conspiracy.

"Hmm," Holmes hummed and took a few drags on his pipe before turning to Watson. The two had been in the sitting room when the valet arrived, Watson reclining in Holmes' armchair, Holmes himself sitting on the rug at his feet, leaning against Watson's left leg, with his arm draped over the doctor's thigh. The detective had been going through other papers and letters he'd received, his hand coming to rest on Watson's knee from time to time while he was reading.

When Mrs Hudson knocked to announce their visitor, they stayed as they were, so Holmes held the letter in his right hand, high enough for Watson to read it over his shoulder, and, upon finishing, the detective happily put a crick in his neck by not budging an inch before looking up at his colleague's face to ask his opinion on the matter.

"I'm not rightly sure," he replied, "but, if not to help out someone from the old regiment, do you think this would well be worth your while to investigate?"

Holmes pondered for a minute before asking, with a bit of apprehension, "Yes, surely, but you know my methods. You know I will not rest until I know every detail, even if it means uncovering that your decorated officer might know very well why he is being targeted."

Watson furrowed his brow, but held back in his reproach. It was far from him to pass judgement on people he barely knew, be it positive or negative—eighteen months ago, he would have been indignant, but working with Sherlock Holmes had taught him to be wary of premature conclusions about anyone's honour, be they a beggar or a duke. So, Watson simply nodded at his friend, which Holmes rightly interpreted as permission to be as insensitive in his investigations as he needed to be. Clapping his hand on Watson's knee, he got up, and wrote a short note, which he then gave to George, the valet.

"Take this to your master, and tell him not to worry. We'll soon have this cleared up."

As the valet bowed out of the room, Watson narrowed his eyes at Holmes.

"What's in that letter?"

"Pack your things, Watson. You're going on a trip."

A heated, but short argument later, it was established that Watson was to fill the familiar position of bodyguard for two days before Holmes could join him in the mansion. Watson had no mind to admit it, but he disliked it when their adventures separated them for any length of time. Holmes knew that, of course, and, just as he often played a small selection of his friend's favourite melodies after particularly tedious wanderings on the violin, it was understood that he was sorry when he fixed Watson with an intense look from his warm, brown eyes and explained that there was simply no other way of approaching the situation. Watson relented, but warned that the daily reports he would undoubtedly be asked to send would turn out to be very caustic in tone if Holmes were to delay any longer than the agreed two days. The detective stepped up to where Watson had been standing during their discussion and gave him a lingering, but chaste kiss—in deference to the unlocked door and Mrs Hudson's impeccable timing—which appeased Watson's apprehension a great deal more than, again, he would have cared to admit. But then, he wouldn't have had to, because it was all too keenly observed by Holmes in the way his grip on his cane relaxed slightly, and the furrow of his brow eased.

"There you are," Holmes whispered, still firmly ensconced in Watson's personal space.

"I'd better get my things, then," Watson answered, quickly leaning in to steal another kiss, then setting off in the direction of his room, leaving Holmes to ponder their latest mystery.

* * *

Now, in the Colonel's house, Watson was honest enough with himself to realize that his reluctance to be apart from Holmes, while always having lingered at the back of his mind from their first case onwards, had only exponentially increased ever since their relationship had crossed the boundaries of intimacy society expected from gentlemen who were merely "great friends." It had happened slowly, gradually, although Watson was sure that Holmes had been aware of the rising tension between them much earlier than he had. It took Watson longer to come to terms with it, but there were many sleepless nights in which he found he could think only of his colleague in the other bedroom, how close to death they had come again that day, and how badly he needed Holmes not to die, not to leave him, whatever the cost. He found himself pondering the  _man_ , not the detective. He knew it was a sin to think of another gentleman as he would of a woman, but there was no mistaking the excitement that coiled in Watson's stomach whenever he heard Holmes speak in that gravelly voice, when he watched him move, for anything else than lust. A sexual appetite that he had never before experienced in himself, not during his adolescence or his time in the army, where he had, obviously, constantly been around formidable men who were, to their credit, handsome enough to tempt, wherever they'd been stationed, some considerable interest in the fair sex; and, surprisingly, their own, although no-one ever spoke of such things, not even in the far-away hills of Afghanistan. Back in London, he'd never felt attracted to any of the man he'd encountered, either, and yet female company had left him equally disinterested since he'd moved into 221B Baker Street, leading him to the conclusion that it wasn't that he suddenly preferred men over women—he merely preferred Sherlock Holmes over everyone else.

A discovery, he mused, that was just as comforting as it was upsetting in a sense. John felt himself torn between the expectations society had of decency and purity, and the measly regard he knew Sherlock Holmes held for any such conventions, which John thought to be the very foundation of civilization—the very civilization that, ultimately, Holmes too struggled to uphold by getting murderers, extortionists, and thieves off the streets and into Lestrade's custody at the Yard.

He once asked Holmes, in a very round-about way, why he thought so little of society's rules when he himself was fighting to maintain that same society by protecting it from the criminal classes.

"My dear Watson," Holmes answered with a small smile lingering in the corners of his mouth. "For one, you should know that only the privileged can afford such disdain for society, polite society especially, as I have exhibited it in the last few months you have accompanied me; in a way, I am merely exercising my birth right to eccentricity, helped along by my somewhat notorious reputation—which the publication of your chronicles has made all the greater, my dear fellow.

"In more general terms, however, surely you must understand that one can agree with the overall structure and integrity, but violently disagree with certain parts of the philosophy or policy without fear of alienation. Take us, Watson: I cannot for the life of me comprehend your aversion to my usage of chemical stimulants to occupy my mind when in danger of stagnation—yet, I could not ever think of myself as apart from you. I may have a chance of altering some of your opinions, I may already have, but I am fully aware that in some cases, you will never budge, and yet I would not give up hope on you entirely. Nor would I stop doing what I deem necessary in the pursuit of my cases, no matter what society tells me otherwise. The same goes for you, as you will no doubt lecture me about the hazards of a seven per cent solution of cocaine every time you even see the etui in my drawer, or reprimand me for nicking your formaldehyde, or risk your head by chasing after a culprit even though I've told you not to.

"We can do whatever we like, John, within the constraints of duty that we feel upon us, though, I would argue that they be constraints of our own affections, not of politics or morality, for those change alarmingly quickly with every by-election. Wrong is not always wrong, just as right is not always the answer we are looking for, you and I."

Watson had sat in his armchair, stunned into silence by this speech, while his friend simply turned to take up his violin and played a bit of Mendelssohn, as if in an attempt to comfort his companion's frayed nerves. That night, and many nights after that, Watson had lain restless, wondering if Holmes could have known what had bothered Watson enough to ask such a question—and whether Holmes had been serious about the degree of affection he felt for his friend. Watson knew he couldn't envisage a life without Holmes, but he had never imagined his companion to feel the same. To feel, full stop. Emotions were of no consequence to the calm and clinical mind of Sherlock Holmes, and yet he, John Watson, was supposed to be the one person to inspire him differently?

The response that this elicited in his heart was enough to make him put his head in his hands as he sat, cross-legged, on the bed in the darkness of his room. Still, it seemed unlikely that the pleasures of the body, present though they were in John's consciousness, should mean anything to the detective. In all the time Watson knew him, Holmes had never taken up with anyone, and although Watson had caught Holmes stealing his shirts in the mornings, or casting side-long glances at him when he didn't appear to be paying attention now and again, Watson felt too insecure in his analysis of Holmes' inner workings to jump to any conclusions.

They had been living together for about nine months when something changed. The case they were working on took a nasty turn, and one of the thugs they'd been chasing had the idea to incapacitate Holmes by trapping his left hand in a bakery's oven. Watson got him out soon enough, but Holmes had unwittingly burnt his hand on the metal clap, which made it necessary to return to Baker Street at once and get the burns treated, leaving Lestrade's troops to chase after the criminals. At the flat, Watson applied an anti-septic salve and bandages to Holmes' injured hand before urging him to go to bed and rest.

Since the detective refused, but was evidently in a great deal of pain, Watson saw no alternative but to fetch some morphine from his bag and drag a half-conscious Holmes to his bedroom. Upon entering, Watson nearly cried out—it was such a mess that, with Holmes as dead weight and his bad right leg, he'd never make it two feet into the room without further injury. Thus disappointed, he turned and heaved Holmes into his own, reasonably tidy room. He put Holmes down on the bed, removed waistcoat, shoes, and trousers for him, and tucked him into the covers, carefully brushing a hand through the hair that had fallen into the detective's face; settling himself into the chair in the corner with a light and a book.

It was hours into the night that he realized that he could have put Holmes on the settee in the living-room, that he himself could have left the room and stayed up to read in his office in either case; that he hadn't even baulked at the tightening in the pit of his stomach as he took off Holmes' clothes. Staring at Holmes' sleeping face in the dim light, Watson, for the first time, acknowledged to himself that there was nothing he could do, nothing he _wanted_  to do against this attraction that he felt. He didn't know how long he would last without telling Holmes, or what he would do if the consulting detective rejected him—he knew he'd never be happy anywhere else, either, but he afforded himself the luxury of not thinking about that just yet. His mind had enough trouble with the admission that he had, in fact, fallen for the great Sherlock Holmes.

The next morning, Holmes found a tray on the nightstand, with a light breakfast and tea, along with a note from Watson to, please, stay in bed a bit longer to rest, he'd be in the living-room, ready to come up if Holmes needed anything. Since his hand still hurt and he found himself a little sluggish from the morphine, Holmes for once acquiesced to the good doctor's request and made himself comfortable, breathing deeply as his movement between the covers caused the unmistakable scent of John to waft past his nose. Getting on with breakfast, he soon craved his friend's conversation over that of the day's newspaper, so he cleared his throat and called, "Watson!" as loudly as he could.

Within seconds, he heard the doctor's off-beat steps on the stairs, then on the landing, and then the door opened to reveal a somewhat harrowed-looking Watson.

"Is everything alright? How's your hand?"

"Good heavens, Watson, calm down, I didn't mean to frighten you. I merely felt the need for some company, and I didn't want to scream myself hoarse."

 _There are a few things I'd like to do to you that might make you scream yourself hoarse…_ , thought Watson before clamping a lid on such lewd reactions and forced a neutral expression on his face as he stepped closer, though he felt his ears redden slightly with embarrassment.

"How are you feeling, then? Does the hand hurt any more than it should? Are you feeling a bit…wobbly?"

"I'm quite alright, thanks to your excellent care and medical skills, my dear doctor. My body is still a bit droopy from the morphine, but my mind and my senses are as alert as ever."

"Good, good… I'd better change your bandages, then."

Watson set about to do just that, missing the intense scrutiny Holmes passed over him while he worked on the detective's hand, having taken up a seat next to him on the bed, though careful not to let their thighs touch.

"Is there something the matter, Watson?"

"Hmm?" Watson briefly looked up as he tossed the used bandages into a wastebasket next to the bed before sorting out the new ones.

"Everything in your manner tells me that there's something bothering you, or at least keeping you busy, internally. If there's something wrong, you know you can always tell me, if you wish."

Since it was no use denying that there was indeed something niggling at him, Watson settled for a shrug and replied, "I don't think I'm quite ready to yet, but I'll… consider it. Thank you, old boy."

The small voice in his mind told him that he was keeping his answers so brief and his eyes so intently on the task of bandaging Holmes' hand because one thought of his skin touching the detective's as softly and carefully as possible would send the whole façade of his calm exterior tumbling down like a castle built of sand. Caught up in his thoughts, he completely missed Holmes' smile.

The day continued like this, with Holmes reclining and occasionally dozing in Watson's bed, with the doctor himself in the old chair, reading the paper or his book from the night, or the two friends conversing about whatever tickled their fancy. Watson had asked Mrs Hudson not to admit any visitors that day, so they might remain undisturbed, and they were left to themselves in a rare bit of quiet, giving the doctor the chance to think about a few things.

After that day, it took another two weeks before the subject came up again—Watson had been paying more attention to their interactions during that time, and had had a bit of a shock: if he'd had someone to talk to about this, they probably would have pointed out to him that the physical closeness between him and Holmes was already taking on astonishing proportions. Now that he thought about it, he realized that it very possibly had from the moment they'd met, what with Holmes dragging him towards the work bench in St. Bart's by his coat sleeve. Their faces were automatically close whenever they talked, and their movements seemed to naturally gravitate towards each other, even when they just walked down a street together. As Watson paid more attention to Holmes' body than ever, painfully aware that the observant genius must surely know that he did, he started asking himself how he could have managed to deny the truth for as long as nine months without noticing that the attraction he felt was there not just because Sherlock Holmes was a handsome and fascinating man, but because they were already closer to each other than mere "friends" had any cause to be, and he couldn't help responding. The more closely he looked and listened, the more aware he became of the way Holmes' voice changed when they were in private, of the ever-present verbal innuendo lingering, if not in the words themselves, then in the tone; and of how possessive of him Holmes seemed to become whenever they were out in public—there really was no escaping the man's attention or charisma.

Still, he wasn't sure whether to own up to Holmes about his feelings, until, one quiet evening in Baker Street, Holmes proved his deductive and anticipatory abilities by putting both hands (the burns on his left had healed completely) on the armrests of Watson's chair, effectively standing between the doctor's legs, and bending at the waist until they were eye to eye. Observing Watson as he tried to regulate his breathing at first, but then decided to just let go and leave it to come out in somewhat irregular patterns, Holmes started to smile, a smile that spelt delight as well as triumph.

"I see that my plan has succeeded," he broke the silence.

"What plan?"

"Seducing you, of course," Holmes replied, with the air of relating the newest weather report.

"Seducing—? Oh, I should have known, shouldn't I?" Watson lightly shook his head, and Holmes chuckled.

"That I was trying to get you to realize your attraction to me from the first instant I noticed your pupils dilate and your breathing patterns change whenever we got closer to each other than strictly necessary? Don't blame yourself, my dear, it took me a while longer to recognize the signs in both of us in the first place than I would have liked; and longer to figure out what to do about it."

"How long?" Watson asked a little feebly, knowing perfectly well that the answer wouldn't calm his nerves at all.

"Oh, about a week after you'd moved in."

Watson closed his eyes in defeat, then reopened just one to test the waters. An unbidden thought caused him to open the other as well, rather abruptly.

"So that's it, then? Your  _experiment_  went successfully, you can move on to other things, then. I'm surprised you had the tenacity to keep at it for so long before losing patience with me." He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice, for this was what he had feared: he had been a project to the emotionally disinterested Holmes; not even a conquest, certainly not a lover. Holmes tilted his head at the implied accusation and leaned forward until their noses were almost touching.

"What makes you think I'd want to 'move on'? I did say, 'both of us,' didn't I?"

Watson nearly drew his head back in shock. "But… you said matters of the heart… you've never been with anyone, at least not to my knowledge…"

"My dear Watson, that I'm not the world's greatest champion of emotion does not mean I understand nothing of it, or would fail to recognize it within myself. See, there, you've taught me something, it's all your doing, by bouncing into my life the way you did. And only yours, Doctor. Only yours."

Watson couldn't help but stare for a minute, before he finally found his voice again. "So what do you… what should we…"

Leaning ever closer, Holmes smiled. "I think we should let this lead us wherever it's heading."

"What if that's a one-way street to prison?"

"Not if we're discreet. Arrangements can be made, we can use the bedrooms alternatingly, we know Mrs Hudson's schedule; and one of us can always hide in a cupboard…"

"You've thought this through, haven't you?" Watson asked, feigning sarcasm.

"Of course! Haven't you?" Holmes' voice had dropped about an octave, and a shiver ran down Watson's spine.

* * *

Setting his papers down and getting a pen from his bag, Watson sat down at the small desk and thought back to that week. Holmes had kissed him then for the first time, deliciously trapped as he was in that armchair. They had spent their first night together not much later, sealing the doctor's fate, as he himself sometimes referred to the occasion.

"Must you paint it in quite so gruelling colours, John?" Holmes asked him the first time he'd expressed it like that on a rainy Friday morning, and he merely replied, "Surely the great consulting detective would agree with me that there is nothing gruelling about such a truth as this?" With that, Watson kissed Holmes' collarbone and settled comfortably next to him between the covers of their bed in the doctor's room, drawing a chuckle from the other man.

And so their lives had indeed continued: friends and colleagues in public, lovers in secret. No-one suspected them of anything untoward, not even Mrs Hudson had managed to catch them out by accident. They only one who could have possibly read it all on their faces the very next time he saw them was the elder Holmes brother, Mycroft, but Sherlock had waved John's concerns aside when he'd brought it up after one of their visits to the Diogenes Club.

"Never mind Mycroft, my dear fellow, I'd wager that he knew everything before I did."

"But you said you'd noticed after a week, and I didn't meet your brother until months later, how—"

"I wrote him a letter detailing my new living arrangements, old boy, I'm sure he saw my enthusiasm regarding your person in the upwards slant my script must have taken when I wrote your name—you know, graphology and all that."

Apart from hat, they'd had the odd scare when clients dropped in early and unannounced, but in those cases Mrs Hudson had always covered for them anyway, to give them time to make themselves presentable—little did she know that that time now also served as a chance to disentangle their naked limbs when she used that unmistakable five-knock.

* * *

Watson was just about to start his letter to Holmes, detailing everything he had learned upon his arrival, when he heard a rustling from beyond the door that led outside onto a small balcony. It was a mild spring night, so Watson had left it open to enjoy the air, and now he clearly heard something or someone scuffle through the hedges underneath. Praying this wouldn't be the assassination squad they had been waiting for, prompted by his own arrival, Watson put down his pen and grabbed his revolver off the nightstand, inching closer to the open doors carefully. He'd nearly cocked the gun when he heard a very distinctive voice cursing from below.

Quickly, he stepped over towards the banister and looked down, seeing with his own eyes: Holmes, climbing up the branches of a large shrub of ivy that grew up the side of the house. In as loud a whisper as he could manage, he addressed his friend.

"Holmes, what on earth are you doing here?"

"Climbing up to your balcony, my dear fellow, I'm sure that much is obvious."

"It is, thank you. Holmes, I almost shot you!"

"Well, then I must thank you for reconsidering that decision. That's settled, then."

"No, Holmes, nothing is settled!" Watson went on to stage whisper as Holmes continued his ascend. "You weren't supposed to arrive until the morning after tomorrow. What if somebody sees you?"

"Oh, but 'I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes.'" With that, Holmes' head finally appeared above the parapet, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Watson raised an eyebrow at his friend's dishevelled appearance.

"You're a rubbish Romeo."

"No-one likes a Juliet with a beard, so let's call it even."

Smiling fondly in spite of himself, Watson watched as Holmes settled quite comfortably on the banister, upturned face gazing at the doctor expectantly.

"John—"

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, tearing the moment away from them, and when the door opened, Watson turned and used his taller frame to shield Holmes from view, hiding the gun behind his back in the same movement. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware that Holmes had ducked below the banister, but had trouble retaining his grip on the stone, his eyes widening comically as the branches underneath him slowly gave way to his weight. Unable to do anything about it, Watson turned towards their host.

"What is it, Colonel?"

"Excuse me for disturbing you so late, Dr Watson, I merely wanted to let you know that—"

In that moment, a small crash sounded from behind them, followed by a quiet yelp, a series of breaking twigs and a thud. Watson, schooling his expression into surprise instead of a wince, blocked the Colonel's view for another moment before stepping aside and looking down into the dark of the gardens.

"What was that?"

"Probably just a nocturnal animal on the prowl," Watson answered, the picture of calm, and motioned for them to step inside. "Let's not disturb them by scaring off their prey."

"If you're sure it's just an animal and not the people who've been threatening me…" The Colonel was hesitant, and Watson hoped he didn't have to cover up any more strange noises from below—he wouldn't put it past Holmes to start meowing to dispel Murchison's doubts as to his human identity. "Oh, alright then, I'll take your word for it, Doctor."

They walked back into the room and Watson positioned himself so that the Colonel wouldn't be able to see anything if some part of Holmes showed up in its previous location, while surreptitiously slipping the gun into his pocket.

"Anyway, I was just going to tell you that no-one suspicious had taken up lodgings at the inn during the past few days or this evening. They are now closed down for the night, so we should be quite alright."

"Good, thank you, Colonel," Watson agreed, neglecting to advise the man that ruthless killers rarely checked into lodgings in the country to prepare for a murder, "I will relay the news to Holmes in my report. Is there anything else?" he added when the Colonel made no move to speak or, more importantly, leave.

"No, Doctor, everything's fine, considering the circumstances. I shouldn't bother you any longer, please forgive my intrusion. Have a good night, and don't hesitate to ring if there's anything the matter. I will see you at breakfast."

"Of course, thank you, Colonel. Good night," Watson replied, carefully ushering Murchison towards the door.

They had spent dinner and the length of a cigar and, in Watson's case, a brandy reminiscing about the Afghan campaign and other officers from their regiment, but the Colonel turned out to have joined the troops after Watson himself had already been wounded, so they had little experiences in common. In addition to that, the Colonel was absent-minded and distracted due to the constant fear for his life, which made conversation a tedious affair. Both had agreed to retire early, and what with Holmes hanging off his balcony, Watson was reasonably eager to get Murchison out of his hair as quickly as possible.

When he'd finally closed and locked the door behind the former officer, Watson hurried back to the balcony, peering over the parapet.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you alright?"

He couldn't see his partner, and he was worried that he might have injured himself in the fall.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," came a voice from the side of the balcony, and Holmes reappeared—with a rose between his teeth, of all things.

"Sherlock, what do you think you're doing?"

"Hmm? Wew, you fee muh dear," Holmes mumbled around the stem, so Watson rolled his eyes, stepped forward, and gently pried the flower from the other man's mouth.

"That's better, thank you, although I remembered to snip off any offensive thorns with my pocket knife, you see? I wouldn't have picked this brave little thing off its bush at all if my unfortunate journey downwards hadn't caught it by surprise, anyway. I must commend you on your acting talents, my dear fellow, the way you lured the Colonel back inside was textbook. Now, where was I before we were so rudely interrupted? Of course!" Looking at Watson with the same expectant expression he'd worn earlier, the detective smiled.

Watson raised his eyebrows questioningly and leaned over, still holding the rose between index finger and thumb of his right hand.

"John—shouldn't I be rewarded for my trouble?"

Watson knew exactly what thought had been behind that supposedly innocent question, so he bent down a little further to kiss Holmes languidly, not caring that to all the world they would look like fools. He pulled back a minute later to tell Holmes as much, and the detective chuckled, while Watson pressed on.

"Mycroft would probably tell you that you're blinding your intellect by behaving like a lovelorn idiot," the doctor teased.

"But 'if love be blind, love cannot hit the mark,' says Mercutio; and I think I've hit the mark with the usual precision."

Not even bothering to roll his eyes at the smug look on Holmes' face, Watson extended his left hand.

"Wouldn't you like to come in, then, instead of hanging about on parapets?"

"Excellent idea, Watson, if you could…"

Bracing his left leg, Watson helped the detective climb over the banister, smiling inwardly as Holmes didn't let go of his hand while moving about, searching the grounds and windows of the house for anyone who might be loitering. He was just about to turn back to Watson when something occurred to him. He leaned out over the banister, but looked upwards, as if inspecting the roof.

"Watson, when three attempts on your life have been made, with none of  _them_  hitting their mark, what does that tell you?"

Watson shrugged. "That you're the luckiest man in England?"

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was aiming at a rather more worldly explanation. Whoever is behind it is not really trying to the best of their abilities." Holmes straightened up again and reached for the pipe tucked into his waistcoat with his left hand and letting go of Watson's with the other to strike a match and light the tobacco. "You know, my dear," he continued as Watson went back inside to put the rose on the desk and the revolver beside it, "this case has all the marks of one that is well worth your attention as chronicler."

"How so?" asked Watson, leaning his right shoulder against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets.

"Well, there is the strange circumstance of your fellow officer's early retirement—I had a look at the estate's entry at the land registry. It has been in the family's possession for several generations, but it does not afford much of a living, at least not enough for Col. Murchison to retire as early as he did, after all, he's only about five years older than you are, and we both know that an army pension does not make anyone a wealthy man. So I endeavoured to gain insight into the man's exploits by sending some of the street arabs off on a few errands, and their findings were what prompted me to come out here immediately…"

Watson's eyes were following Holmes' cat-like movements while he paced the length of the balcony smoking his pipe, and explained his reasoning, but his mind had already run after his ears as they drank up every sound that escaped the detective's mouth. Certainly one had to have a penchant for extraordinary patience when living with Sherlock Holmes—any genius, true or imagined, sought an audience—but for John Watson, listening was a gift in much more worldly ways. The deep rumbling drawl that was Holmes' voice could drive Watson to distraction the one minute and make him quiver in anticipation the next. He could be talking of the most ordinary of things, such as the sensational literature he constantly mocked, but devoured all the same, and yet Watson would be left weak in the knees simply by the sound of Holmes' voice, the way he imagined the detective's tongue to wrap around the letters. He enjoyed feeling the gruff and slightly hoarse growl vibrate through Holmes' chest when they woke up in the mornings, and he knew that Holmes knew exactly what the voice did to Watson when he leaned over the doctor's shoulder and rumbled nonsense into his neck. How he still managed to actually concentrate and listen on a case, he didn't know, but Watson was fairly sure that one day he would fall down a flight of stairs as punishment for his wicked ways. For now, the only rather pleasant punishment he was ever getting was Holmes caressing the doctor's body with nothing but his mouth: his lips brushing, his breath ghosting over heated skin, and his voice, practically purring, anything from chemical formulae to the Latin names of various botanical poisons, it made no difference to Watson; and Holmes had devious fun making the good doctor writhe in bed underneath his ministrations.

Watson, in turn, had found that Holmes couldn't resist—not even when he was working, sometimes—Watson's scent. Not his mixture of shaving lather and soap (although, that, too), but just the natural, distinctive Watson that he could 'sniff out beneath the perfume cloud of a brothel,' as he had once put it in his usual delicate manner—not that the good doctor ever frequented such establishments. Watson hadn't been aware of this until he had once (their relationship had already crossed the line by then) looked over the detective's shoulder during one of his many slightly unsavoury experiments—eyeballs exposed to enormous heat in an unsuspecting Mrs Hudson's oven. Commenting on the grossness of the venture, Watson leaned in close and watched, not noticing how much this affected Holmes, whose movements remained steady and certain, until he threw the scalpel down and turned to glare at his partner; their faces not even an inch apart.

"Watson, it's no good. Can't you see what you're doing?"

"I'm not doing anything! I'm talking to you about how completely insanitary this experiment is, and considering how you prattle on during my writing hours sometimes, I don't think—"

"Oh, it's not that!"

"Then what am I doing that upsets you so?" Watson asked, with barely concealed sarcasm.

"You… smell."

"I  _smell_? Holmes, I don't think you should be harassing me about personal hygiene."

"No, Watson, clearly you're not observing properly again. You smell fine, that's the problem. Every body exudes a natural aroma, based on metabolism and levels of… agitation. And you, you… with your cleanliness and your spice, you… it's horrible, frankly."

"What is, Holmes?" Watson countered, slowly losing his composure.

"I can't concentrate when you're this close to me unless I concentrate on not concentrating, which, as you will perceive, is almost impossible." Now, Holmes' voice had dropped to a near whisper as he leaned in even closer into Watson's body.

" _What_ does that even mean?" the doctor asked, increasingly impatiently.

"It means: your pheromones are distracting me."

"But—"

"Pheromones!" Holmes practically bellowed, and Watson merely turned around at that and sat back down to compile his notes on their last case, leaving his companion to his eyeballs without further interruption. He didn't even look up when, about an hour later (way past midnight), he felt a nose push into the hair at the nape of his neck.

"I thought I was your sniffer dog," Watson drawled lazily.

"You  _are_  my sniffer dog, my dear, but you smell decidedly too exciting." With that, Holmes started nipping at Watson's neck with his lips and teeth, effectively bringing the writing session to an end.

* * *

Watson mused upon this as he watched Holmes pace around the balcony, lost in his explanation of the case, and realized that merely invading the detective's personal space probably wouldn't do the trick this time, and he could feel the impatience rising in his belly—and below. The good doctor had another card up his sleeve, however: he wasn't quite as forward as Holmes was, but every bit as creative in communicating his needs.

Instead of stepping up to Holmes and going to work  _his_  clothes, as the detective was wont to do when he simply started to undo Watson's endless rows of neat buttons when they retired, Watson's began undressing himself.

Standing directly opposite Holmes, Watson squared his shoulders and started on his frock. Button after button, he opened, slowly, his eyes never leaving Holmes' face, who hadn't caught on yet, oblivious to the change in his companion's mood and intentions. The doctor threw his jacket over the back of the chair by the desk, immediately continuing with his waistcoat and his braces, which were quickly dispensed with, so that it soon joined the jacket. He undid the top buttons of his shirt, tugged it loose from his trousers, and finally pulled it over his head. The flurry of motion and white cotton caught the detective's attention at long last, and when Watson could see Holmes again, shirt still dangling off his right hand, he smirked at the gobsmacked expression on the chiselled face before him. Quickly, Holmes readjusted his eyebrows and spoke in a measured voice.

"My dear Watson, I had no idea…"

"Well, now you do."

"Indeed," Holmes agreed, stepped towards Watson, taking his hands from his pockets, and moved to take the doctor's shirt to throw it in the corner. Watson, however, took a step backwards, just out of Holmes' reach.

"Oh, no."

At the sleuth's narrowing eyes, he grinned. Throwing his shirt to the corner himself, he carefully balanced, first on his left, then his right leg, to toe off his boots along with his socks. When his hands moved to the front of his trousers, he could see the ever so controlled Holmes' hand twitch in anticipation, and his mouth went dry at how much energy the detective must be keeping bottled-up, stood in his place by the doctor's command.

Agonizingly slowly, Watson unbuttoned his trousers, buttonhole by buttonhole, suppressing a hiss as his fingers brushed his half-hard member through the fabric of his pants. With his thumbs hooked into the waistband, Watson stood there for a second, watching Holmes, whose eyes first moved over his naked torso hungrily, but then locked with Watson's, his pupils almost black with excitement. When Holmes was just about to draw breath to speak, Watson pushed his own pants and trousers down firmly, stepping out of them as they pooled around his ankles, getting back into Holmes' reach.

Holmes was searching his body for a sign that he was allowed to come closer, so when Watson turned his arms so his thumbs faced outwards, virtually issuing an invitation, the detective's eyes lit up. He closed the distance between them with one long step and threaded his arms around Watson's hips, gently putting his hands on the doctor's buttocks, bringing their bodies closer together. Sharing their breaths in their proximity, the air between them started heating up, Watson's body heat rolling off of him, reaching for Holmes. Eyes locked, the two men stared at each other for the longest moment before meeting half-way in a demanding kiss. Watson buried his hands in Holmes' hair and tugged sharply, eliciting a guttural moan from him.

"Now," Holmes murmured as he pulled away, "as fascinating as this is," he nodded at their bodies, flush against each other, Watson's naked skin in stark contrast to the other man's smartly clothed form, "I think there is some catching up to be done." Without further ado, Holmes started unbuttoning his coat and jacket, shrugged them off, and diverted his hands' course to his trousers as he felt the doctor's quick fingers on his shirt and braces. Making short work of his boots and socks the way Watson had before, all that was left of Holmes' clothes was now in a pile at his feet.

"Better?" he asked Watson, who already had his hands roaming his lover's chest.

"Much," he grumbled, preparing to say something else, but getting distracting by Holmes turning away and bending down to look for the small pot of vaseline and a small towel (any reasonable doctor should always have one in his kit) in Watson's bag. When John found his voice again, he rasped, "You're doing this on purpose."

Holmes turned towards him, wearing a perfectly innocent expression that wouldn't have fooled a teapot.

"What, bending over so my impertinently pert, naked bottom, inviting you to think of all the things you'd like to do to me tonight, distracts you from whatever you were going to say? Why, yes, I think you've got me there."

Holmes' nonchalant attitude even when he was stark-bollock naked with his supposedly gentleman best friend, in a stranger's house where they could be discovered any minute if something unforeseeable should happen and assistance be required, and while he was visibly aroused, was what drove Watson over the edge; almost more forcefully than the things the sight of his companion's bottom stretched upwards to meet him had indeed done to him.

Watson went up to Holmes, wound his arms around his back, pulling him close until not a sheet of paper would have fit between them, and caught his lips in a kiss that soon left both of them breathless. John let his mouth slide gently over Sherlock's, who quickly traced John's lower lip with his tongue, requesting for him to deepen the kiss. Moaning quietly, Watson opened himself to Holmes, both exhaling harshly when their tongues met. Holmes had his hands on Watson's hips now, slowly directing him backwards to the bed. When the backs of his knees hit the frame, Watson sat down, pulling Holmes on top of him, both hissing with pleasure when their erections brushed against each other; Holmes dropping the vaseline and the towel on the nightstand. Straddling him, Holmes brushed his hands through the doctor's short hair, pulling him closer against his mouth.

Slowly, still not breaking the kiss, John let himself fall back, into the covers, bringing Sherlock with him. Putting his hands on Sherlock's arse, he encouraged him to scoot further up on the bed with him, so they could both lie down comfortably, the detective coming to rest on top of Watson; who promptly used his left leg as leverage to roll them over. He pulled away from the kiss and looked Holmes squarely in the eye as he rolled his hips into the detective's, earning a wrangled cry. Propping himself up on his arms, Watson bent to place kisses along Holmes' jaw, neck, and collarbones, flicking his tongue at the flushed skin. Holmes arched his back, pressing up against Watson, who lightly bit his shoulder in response. Feeling their straining erections against each other's thighs, they ground their loins together, both gasping at the friction, Watson arching his back and brushing his stubbled cheek against Holmes' when he leaned down again.

Holmes pushed his nose into the juncture of Watson's neck and shoulder, breathing deeply—Watson smiled against his lover's wayward curls. Thus distracted, he didn't notice Holmes preparing to flip them over again.

Seeing Watson sprawled out between the pillows, his dark eyes ablaze, the scent of arousal rolling off oh him in waves, Holmes almost forgot how to breathe. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to Watson's navel, feeling the muscles of his stomach quivering and ripping beneath the former athlete's taut skin. Licking a path upwards to Watson's chest, Holmes traced a nipple with his tongue, enjoying how the doctor's breath hitched.

Watson turned his head and reached for the vaseline on the bedside table, unscrewed the lid, and stared up at Holmes.

"On your back," he growled quietly. Holmes felt himself twitch in excitement, and rolled his body off of Watson's and over on his back beside him, scooting to his right so Watson would be able to stretch his bad, right leg out to the side on the bed, if needed, to keep the pressure off, and spread his legs.

Watson smirked, scooped a small amount of the lubricant onto his fingers and started spreading it on Holmes' cock, to the man's surprise, and then reached behind his own back to prepare himself. Holmes imagined two of Watson's fingers working in and out of his entrance, and let his head thump back into the pillows in defeat. When he was ready, Watson then straddled Holmes, thrusting his hips forward, willing his muscles to relax, and lowered himself onto Holmes' throbbing member, slowly, until he was filled up to the hilt. Bracing his hands on Holmes's chest, he started moving, shifting up and down on the detective, who gripped Watson's hips firmly, trying to keep the man's movements steady, trying to draw it out; both soon finding that familiar rhythm.

When they almost couldn't bear it anymore, Holmes let go of Watson's left hip and blindly felt around for the pot of vaseline, taking up a bit before simply throwing it off the bed, but not spreading it on the tips of his fingers. Instead, he gently traced them along Watson's shaft, until it was slick, and Watson was panting even harder. The thrusts of their hips were becoming erratic, and Holmes felt that he was getting close. Not wanting to climax too early before John, he closed his hand around his length and firmly stroked up and down, pushing his thumb over the head. John, moving on top of him, threw his head back and bit back a cry.

Both were so close to the edge now that, after exchanging a look, they let go, letting ecstasy claim them. Muffling a shout by turning his head into the pillows, Holmes came with one last, hard thrust into Watson, who followed suit, gasping, his seed spurting all over Holmes' chest and stomach.

Getting the towel, Watson cleaned him up, feeling Holmes soften within him, then eased his right leg away to align it with Holmes', and simply dropped on the bed, half lying on Holmes, half on the covers, Holmes slipping out of him. They both groaned at the sensation, and Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's back as they tried to catch their breaths.

In the dim light of the lamp on the desk, neither of them spoke for a while, until Holmes turned his head and drawled, "On pain of you not believing me, I really didn't come here solely with this in mind."

Watson chuckled and dropped a kiss on Holmes' chest.

"I'll go and close the door, it's getting cold in here." Watson got up and was about to close and lock the doors when something caught his eye—a light, from beyond one of the windows in the lower wing of the house. Instinctively, he grabbed the nearest plant pot to shield his dignity, walking closer to the parapet to investigate. He was already drawing breath to call out for Sherlock when he realized what he had seen: it wasn't a candle or a lamp, it was the moon reflected in one of those damned pieces of glass and mirror mobiles that the Colonel had in the sitting room—a gift from his late mother, apparently. Exhaling, relieved, through his nose, John set down the plant and stepped backwards through the balcony doors, closing them.

"What  _were_  you doing out there, naked and armed with nothing but a plant pot?" came Holmes' voice from the bed, and Watson saw that he had turned the covers down and was already cocooned in a blanket, holding up one edge for Watson to get in.

"I thought there was somebody about, so I used a plant to shield as much as could," he explained as he turned down the desk lamp and went towards the bed.

"And I see you had the mind to pick something without thorns," Holmes teased as Watson got in the bed, nestling in closely, entangling their limbs. John merely thumped Sherlock's shoulder, making him laugh quietly. Settling into his warmth, Watson closed his eyes and relaxed for a minute before asking, "What did you come here for, then? I got a little distracted earlier."

"I believe you did, yes. Well, as I had predicted, Colonel Murchison isn't quite as innocent in all this as he likes to make out. But, before I continue: when's breakfast?"

"At half past nine. The butler comes up at eight."

"I'll have to sneak out at dawn then, and return via the front door by a quarter past eight. Well, I can send a telegram to Lestrade, if I go to the village at seven…"

"Sherlock."

"Hmm?"

"Colonel Murchison?"

"Oh, right. You see, John, there is this rather shady gambling establishment, very far from the West End…"

THE END (?)

**Author's Note:**

> Quotes:  
> "I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes"—Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet, Act II, Scene 2, l. 75.  
> "If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark"—ibid, Act II, Scene 1, l. 33.
> 
> Verse: movie!Holmes, set pre-Sherlock Holmes (2009), no spoilers for either that or A Game of Shadows (2011), one shot, but with the possibility of expanding it into a series; presuming Ch. and I will have more silly ideas. (Which we will.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, I get nothing. Title inspired by the line in Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet.
> 
> Repost from ff.net.


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